


Kissing, A History

by july__thirteen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9531914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/july__thirteen/pseuds/july__thirteen
Summary: They've had 10 types of kisses.





	1. Hesitant

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Fanfic Prompts and Fun](http://fanficspromptsandfun.tumblr.com/post/153391610561/types-of-kisses-prompts) for the "types of kisses" prompt. This is currently rated T+, but it may increase in later chapters. Later chapters may also be longer. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know Zayn or Harry (which is a relief, because this would be so embarrassing), and I claim none of what I post to be anything but fantastical. This is meant as a pressure-free exploration of a fictional relationship.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hesitant Kiss - The type of kiss where their lips touch a brush against each other’s a few times, breath fanning across each other’s faces as one waits for the other to make a move."

The first is a fleeting memory. A post-joint, hazy and lazy thing neither of them remembers fully. Zayn’s convinced it’s a dream—maybe even a nightmare with the way it lingers and taunts him. Every time Harry sings with those wide lips of his, Zayn feels a whisper across his cheek, thinks he can nearly hear the words, could hear them if Harry weren’t so loud. But that’s Harry’s way, isn’t it? Loud. A first kiss with Harry would come with a clash of cymbals to rattle the ears.

Still, hints of something like a kiss invade his mind for the next few weeks of tour. An interviewer asks about their relationships, and they respond with varying degrees of coyness. Liam’s open about his happiness with Sophia; he’s always eager to share her loveliness. Louis boasts about Eleanor and how great things are with her, it’s less gentle and more funny; he’s good about saying a lot and revealing very little. Niall cracks an eligible bachelor joke. Then it’s Zayn, and he says the usual: something about “Perrie’s great, yeah. Being separated’s tough, but it is what it is.” There’s a shrug in there somewhere, too.

Harry doesn’t even get a chance to respond, which bothers Zayn. The interviewer assures them and the audience that Harry’s surely still playing the field, breaking all the hearts, and Zayn wants to say, “Don’t be ridiculous,” because as showy as Harry is, he’s insecure and terrified of people liking him too much or disliking him at all. Flirting, for him, is a form of conversational banter. Fields are for rolling in or picking flowers from, not seeking out hearts to break like everyone keeps suggesting.

Zayn reaches out to bump the side of his fist against Harry’s knee, and Harry grins at him, and Zayn remembers.

 

“My lips feel funny, Zayn.” Harry’s high and sitting next to him with his head against the back of the couch, his eyes closed.

Zayn leans over to peer at them very closely, his hand on Harry’s arm. “They look fine,” Zayn reassures him, giving him a squeeze. It’s hard to be sure, really, with his own eyes open but unable to focus. He’d planned to smoke himself to sleep before Harry showed up, and his eyes are apparently mourning the loss of extra Z’s.

Harry peeks at him with one eye. “Yeah? Just fine?”

With a _tch_ , Zayn pokes him, tips his own head against the back of the couch. “Just fine. Normal. Right.”

Harry’s quiet a minute, then there’s some shuffling and his head drops onto Zayn’s bony shoulder. It’s Zayn’s turn to peek, looking down not onto a mop of lush, earthy curls, but into eyes dollar-bill-green.

“Right?”

The word pulls his attention to Harry’s lips, damp and flushed. He looks kissed already, like someone’s sucked on his lips ‘til they swelled. Zayn’s mind narrows in on that, at the distaste in his mouth that someone had beaten him to it. He can feel Harry’s breath, smell the weed and the pink Lucozade they’d been drinking, the vodka-something he’d had before coming over. “Yeah,” Zayn eventually whispers. “Just right.” Even though they’re wrong. They’re kissed-plump and wet from his tongue, and Zayn realizes what it’s like to be jealous of another person’s own anatomy.

His head dips of its own accord, his shoulder rising to encourage Harry’s face closer. Harry goes easily—as if he’d been waiting for the green light of it—lifts his head from Zayn’s shoulder. And that’s it. It’s the flutter of butterfly-wings against gentle summer clouds, Zayn’s lips sharper but soft against Harry’s warm mouth. Their eyes are open, and Zayn watches as Harry leans in for another, just as light. His stomach swoops. It’s more like breathing together than kissing. It’s probably only not weird because they’re high and Harry’s maybe drunk.  
Then Harry grins, big and dimply, his nose bumping Zayn’s. 

 

He isn’t sure how long he stares at Harry, their gazes locked and his hand on his knee. He isn’t sure how awkward they made the interview by suddenly engaging in a staring contest. But Harry knows he remembers, Zayn can tell; his grin has slipped into a frown, meaning he’s waiting for Zayn to react, to tell him where they go now that Zayn’s caught on and remembered something crucial.

The trouble is, he doesn’t know where to go from here. They’re all in the middle of an interview, have just finished updating the fans on their love lives, and Zayn’s remembering some weird, high-as-fuck, mouth-to-mouth breathing—because it surely can’t be called kissing. So, he pulls the shutters over his eyes in defense, decides to think on it later—probably over a joint—while he’s alone and can deal with how guilty he doesn’t feel.


	2. Distracting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distracting Kiss - When you are competing, maybe playing video games or something so you press kisses anywhere available; arms, nose, knees, ears, knuckles, temple, just anywhere to distract them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading and for the kudos: permalik, hazolen, Kumi_chan, and guests! This chapter is a *little* longer than the first, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Again, thank you to [Fanfic Prompts and Fun](http://fanficspromptsandfun.tumblr.com/post/153391610561/types-of-kisses-prompts) for the "types of kisses" prompt. This is still rated T+, but it may increase in maturity in later chapters. Later chapters may also be longer. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I still don't know Zayn or Harry (which is still a relief), and I claim none of what I post to be anything but fantastical. This is meant as a pressure-free exploration of a fictional relationship.

He’s sober for the next one. 

The boys are all on the tour bus heading to some other state in the United States’s “bible belt”, and Zayn’s been sat at the front and scrolling through Facebook on his phone for over an hour. He doesn’t generally mind the bus—thinks it’s better than flying anyway—but he’s having a tough time focusing on anything. When they first left Charlotte, he had tried reading and then tried playing games on his phone, but nothing interested him. Facebook certainly isn’t entertaining him either, but he likes looking through his sisters’ pages and seeing what they’ve been up to.

“Hey.”

He looks up from his screen and feels a muscle in his neck ache. Harry is looming over him with all of his gangly, awkward limbs. “Yeah?”

“Let’s play Fifa.”

“What?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fifa. Let’s go play.”

Zayn squints his eyes up at the curly-haired menace. Harry never wants to play video games because he is always, always shite at it. “Right, okay,” he says anyway, still suspicious as he gets up from his seat and follows Harry toward the middle of the bus. They’ve got a couch and telly set up there, an Xbox and some games in the drawers beneath the widescreen. Harry immediately sits in the middle of the couch, so Zayn sets up the game. 

“I saw Doniya’s been busy with her YouTube channel,” says Harry. Zayn looks over his shoulder at him and nods. Harry and his sisters had all added each other on Facebook sometime during the first world tour. “Her videos have gotten quite good. Gemma’s always telling me about them.”

Taking the wireless controllers to the couch, Zayn hands Harry one and sits next to him. “Yeah, she’s well passionate about it.” He figures being related to him has its perks, but he’ll never actually say that. His sisters are all talented, and he’s happy they’re able to share that with the world. “What team do you want?”

Harry shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Give it here,” Zayn laughs, taking his controller to set up a team for him. “I’ll go easy on you,” he says when he’s finished and handing the controller back. 

Harry shoves him and snatches his controller away. “Just play. I’m not that bad.”

 _Sure_ , Zayn thinks with a smirk. He still remembers the last time Louis won a Fifa match against Harry; Harry had tackled him to the ground, and they’d ended up wrestling until Paul banished them to separate buses. 

Playing goes just as he’d figured, really, but it’s still fun. (Because when is obliterating the other player at a game not fun?) Zayn runs his players in circles around Harry’s, and Harry mumbles and curses to himself. It makes Zayn giggle, his nose crinkled. He drives the ball into the top right corner for another goal. He should probably ease up if he doesn’t want to get his arse kicked—or at least flattened by Harry’s weight when he flops down on top of him—but Harry’s frustrated noises spur him on. 

He has just taken the ball away from Harry’s team when he feels the breath on his neck. His own breath catches in his throat, but he keeps his attention on the game, dribbles the ball down the pitch toward the opposing team’s net. Lips brush the hairs at the nape of his neck and he subconsciously tilts his head out of the way, asks for more. The breath trails up his neck to his ear, goosebumps rising in its wake. He bites his lip to sharpen his focus.

But then Harry licks his earlobe. And then bites it. And Zayn’s mouth pops open silently. His player’s still running on the screen, but his vision blurs and it’s much harder to concentrate. Harry moves back down his neck, alternating between fluttering kisses, open-mouthed and wandering kisses, and little nips that make Zayn’s body rapidly heat with interest. He isn’t looking at the screen now. His eyes are firmly shut, his head tilted so that his adams apple juts out sharply. 

Harry makes his way up again, tugs on Zayn’s earlobe. “Zayn,” he whispers, his voice a quiet roll of thunder down Zayn’s spine. 

His eyes shoot open and he looks at Harry with wide eyes for an instant before their mouths meet in a wet, hot clash. There’s no taste of alcohol or weed this time, only the fruity remains of Harry’s smoothie and Zayn’s last cigarette before they’d boarded the bus. 

Zayn can’t believe this is happening, that he can feel Harry’s lovely plush lips on his own, that he can taste Harry’s tongue around his. It’s not that he’d fantasized about it every day for years or that he’d even felt like this was bound to happen—because, really, he had thought he was straight. He supposes he’s at least bi now, but it’s something to stress about later.

Harry takes Zayn’s bottom lip between his teeth and Zayn breathes out a groan, instinctively tries to press closer. But Harry releases his lip, soothes it with his tongue, and pulls back. He’s got a grin on his face that instantly sets Zayn on edge. He’s up to something.

“Now, sit back and let me win,” Harry instructs, bouncing a bit as he turns to face the telly like not a thing had happened. Zayn rolls his eyes and thinks to do the same, go back to the game and ignore the whole thing. But his controller is gone. He frowns, thinks over the brief amount of time he’d been distracted, and draws a blank. “Just let it go.” Zayn eyes Harry’s profile, looks to the screen in time to see him score a goal. “It’s my time to shine,” he mumbles to himself, lip between his teeth. 

Trying to keep from laughing, Zayn looks around for his controller. It’s not on the couch or the floor, and he doesn’t understand where else it could be. Harry couldn’t have gotten up and moved it because his mouth was very seriously on Zayn’s. “Where is it, you tosser. You can’t just cheat your way to a win,” he says sensibly, prodding Harry in the side until he squirms.

“I’m not cheating, I’m seizing an opportunity.”

Zayn does laugh at that. Eyes crinkling into disappearance, he cracks up and shoves Harry until he’s fallen over. The controller reveals itself beneath the pest’s arse. “You absolute menace! You could have broken it.”

“What are you trying to say, Zayn?” he asks with mock indignation as he rights himself. His dimples give him away.

“Nothing. Just guard your goal because I’m coming in.” He flicks his thumbs a few times and is back in possession of the ball. 

“That’s what she said.”

“What are you, five?” he laughs again. 

In the end, he creams Harry 12-3, but he lets Harry tell everyone that he had dominated Zayn. Louis rolls his eyes and whips a pillow at Harry’s head, says something about him being a total monster. Harry makes ridiculous comments the rest of the drive to Atlanta, so the tips of Zayn’s ears are pink beneath his hair. Just when he forgets about the whole thing—or manages to distract himself from that particular distraction—Harry catches his eye and bites down on his lip, and Zayn’s mouth goes dry and his ears flush again. Biting. _Allah help me._


End file.
